“Aunt, I have not another creature to love on earth.”
“And who told you—who compelled you to love at all? It is an indecorous word.”
“And yet ‘God is love!’” answered Catharine, lifting her soft eyes, misty with tearfulness, while her lips unconsciously pronounced the quotation.
“Don’t quote Scripture here in this infamous fashion; don’t talk to me of love. What right had you to love any one but Madame De Marke herself? Thank heaven! I never found it necessary to love any one.”
“But I,” answered the girl, with the most profound humility, “I had no other happiness. I never knew what it was to love myself, till he told me how dear, how beautiful I was to him.”
The aunt arose and stood up. Her dress fell in rustling folds to the floor, her black eyes flashed fiercely.
“How dare you—infamous girl, how dare you? Leave the house!”
“No, aunt, I am not infamous. He loved me, and I, oh! how truly I loved him. We were married, aunt; as honorably married as you and my uncle were. Do not call me infamous; I will not endure it.”
The aunt sat down again, wondering at the strange beauty that lighted up that young face, almost touched by the passionate speech, for she could understand all the pride that was in it, though pathos and appeal were lost upon her.
“Speak a little more moderately, if you have anything to say; and if you are truly married, tell me how, and when. I’m sure it would give me great pleasure to have you well settled and off my hands. Who is the man you are talking about?”